Do You Remember?
by Suncesco
Summary: I put my iPod on shuffle and wrote a short little ficlet for each song. I know, it's been done before, but I wanted to give it a try. Usually light to no slash, depends on the reader, really. Title subject to change. Rating is cautionary.
1. Details

Ok, so here's the first one. Sorry it's so short, but I do the most writing in the middle of the night and I'm usually kinda tired. I know, not the best strategy. I'm also not good at writing long things. I'm not good with complicated plots (simple ones, too, really...).

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Details by Robert Downey Jr.

Holmes sat unmoving on his customary chair, smoking a pipe, fingers lightly touching. Watson sat opposite him, leafing through a medical journal. The fire was softly crackling in the hearth, and a light snow had begun on the streets. Holmes watched the doctor intently through half closed lids. He could almost smell the man from across the room as he observed Watson breathe. The slight rise and fall of the relaxed man's chest soon matched Holmes's. The detective watched Watson's hands turn each page of the journal intently. He had a certain unique quality in the way that he moved that Holmes hadn't noticed before. Every movement was somehow both carefree and deliberate. It was hypnotizing.

Holmes found himself wanting to be nearer to the man opposite him. It was taking a great deal of restraint to maintain his current position. Watching Watson made him realize how much he enjoyed simply being in the same room as him, especially at times like this when neither had to say a word. He loved the little details in the doctor's movement and expression. At the present, his brow was lightly furrowed, his eyes squinting a little at the pages in front of him. Suddenly, Watson felt Holmes's gaze upon him and met the detective's eyes. Embarrassed at having been caught, but unwilling to look away, Holmes kept his gaze steady. A silent understanding was passed between the two of them, and Watson returned to his journal.

The little details about this man really were what Holmes enjoyed the most


	2. Sideways

I know... this one's REALLY short. Please bear with me.

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Sideways by Citizen Cope

"Is it right side up?" Holmes's voice broke the silence.

"Of course it is. They wouldn't have hung it the wrong way in a museum, would they?" Watson replied.

"You can't be so sure. If the artist wasn't present for the hanging of the piece, they could never be totally confident it wasn't the wrong way."

"How do you know he wasn't?"

"I don't. But I also don't know that he was."

"True."

The two men stood in silence for a moment. They exchanged quick glances, then simultaneously tilted their heads.

"Oh," they exclaimed.


	3. Tremble for my Beloved

This one reminds me of the first story I wrote for FanFiction.

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Tremble For My Beloved by Collective Soul

The intoxicating aroma of Holmes's pipe, accompanied by the soft glowing light the fire gave the room, Watson's favorite armchair, and the exhaustion that was overwhelming his body was too much for the tired doctor. He felt himself nodding off where he sat, and so decided it was past time to retire to his rooms. With great effort he stood. Holmes didn't look up from where he sat on the floor, leaning against the settee, smoking his black clay pipe and staring blankly at the wall. Watson gave him a small nod, knowing the man on the floor knew his intentions without speaking or even looking at him. Then he trudged up to his room, dressed in his nightclothes, and crawled into the inviting bed that lay waiting.

He still felt the fatigue that had overwhelmed him before, but he was unable to fall asleep. His head was filled with incoherent thoughts about the past few days, along with a curiosity as to what Holmes had done all week. He had barely spoken to the man since last Sunday. Watson felt a pang of guilt, which was then repressed by the thought that Holmes had probably been preoccupied by some important case or an intriguing chemical experiment. He thought about the people he had spoken to. Patients, mostly, and colleagues. When had his life become reduced to solely his practice?

Then he remembered.

Mary. The thought of her overwhelmed him. He could still smell her, still feel the cool touch of her hand. It had been almost a year now. He could barely remember living with her, yet it seemed only yesterday that they had been elated newlyweds being whisked off to a honeymoon in France.

Watson hadn't noticed the tears streaming down his face. He hadn't noticed his shaking hands, or the ragged gasps that his formerly even breaths had been replaced with. He missed her more than he ever thought imaginable. He lay, trembling in the dark, and wondered why.


	4. This Town

This Town by OAR

Holmes sat pressed against the icy window looking at the street below. He was alone. Again. Watson was busy beyond belief with his practice and it seemed that no one in the country needed Holmes's assistance with anything.

His head lolled against the frigid glass as he stared at the people outside. He didn't know whether to envy or pity them. Their lives seemed so meaningless to the great detective. He quietly supposed his own life was meaningless as well. What really was the purpose of life? To live, breed, and die. But for what overall purpose?

Holmes looked down to his pockmarked forearm resting on his leg, then to the box by his feet. He considered drawing himself another syringe, but decided against it. What difference would it make? It would only provide him with brief mental stimulation, then he would be back to this. His gaze turned back to the snowy street below. He did envy them, he decided. They weren't cursed with this horrid brain. Holmes never had a moment of peace. His mind was always whirring, be it to solve a case or wallow in self pity.

London really was a disgusting city, he mused. The streets themselves were covered in perpetual filth, and the people that walked them were often no better. The population was filled to the brim with criminals, and it would never change. Maybe that was his purpose. To try and lessen that number. He received very little comfort from the thought.


	5. Life in Technicolor

Sorry it's been so long. I've been busy lately, and I've also kinda sort of maybe forgot a little about working on this...

Yeah. I'm sorry. I know not very many people read my stories, but the more I post the more people will read it, right? At least I hope so.

Anyways, enjoy. I know, this one's a little weird, but please bear with me.

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Life in Technicolor by Coldplay

He looked around the room. Dull, grey, lifeless. Just like everything else in this dull, grey, lifeless world. What was the point? There was none. And nothing would ever change that.

He looked at Watson. The lines of worry on his face, the concerned expression displayed on his ever present visage. The neatly pressed clothing, unlike his own rumpled rags. Black and white gave him a sort of grave elegance. The constant look he was giving Holmes, that 'Are you quite alright?' sort of look, was simplified and magnified by the monochromatic veil that was Holmes' field of vision.

He looked at the box on his lap. The various phials and syringes shone dully against the dark wood. The absence of color made them stand out against the fabric of Holmes' clothes and the heavy box like snow on an ebony umbrella.

He looked about the room once more. Still dull, still grey, still lifeless. Fortunately, he knew the remedy. Watson looked on in silence as slender fingers delicately plucked a full syringe from it's resting place and held it just below the dark tourniquet, hovering over pale white skin. He took a sharp breath inwards as the needle pierced Holmes' forearm and held it while Holmes slowly eased the plunger home. The detective, eyes closed, released a small sigh of relief. Watson forced himself to exhale.

Holmes opened his eyes. He looked to Watson. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes, still aimed at Holmes, held a considerable degree of worry. But now, they seemed less intense, less demanding, more commonplace. Now they were in color. He allowed the smallest of grins to flit amongst his features.


End file.
